


double blended with whipped cream

by 2davidbeckham3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Timeline - like always (too much NT drama I don't want to deal with), M/M, Made-up friendly in a vague large US city, Pre-Slash, almost AU with how vague it is but like games and training mentioned so you know, hand holding and starbucks!, idk what this is but yay usmnt centric fic? i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bad week for the U.S. Men's National Soccer team and Michael is one of the lucky few to get yelled at. At least he finds out that Clint raps and gets a free Frappuccino in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	double blended with whipped cream

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so first and foremost the timeline is so so so screwed up because I did not want to deal with the whole Klinsmann not calling up Landon thing. Michael Bradley played in Roma from 2012-2014 and Clint Dempsey joined the Seattle Sounders during 2013 - idk if that means anything this is super vague and whatever. I honestly don't know what this is and I can't describe anything to save my life also probably slight Landon and Jurgen bashing? Idk. titles are so hard to do!!!

He spoke without thinking, a rash, and impulsive decision that Clint’s not entirely sure he’d take back.  It didn’t matter, anyways. Michael didn’t hear him and it’s a bit unnerving that he didn’t – Michael’s the most attentive one in the bunch, to the point that Donovan looks downright oblivious.

It’s not like he could help it. Michael stood in front of Clint looking through him, rather than at him, obviously still reeling from the “talk” he had with Klinsmann. He was breathing hard, and, from the looks of it, flushed from head to toe, reminding Clint of the few times that the team made fun of him and his father’s nepotism.

(It was long ago, and Michael soon proved his worth. Then, he looked so young, lost and angry like a child does when it throws a temper tantrum, but now-)

He didn’t have a good game against Costa Rica, but neither did the rest of the squad; Clint had sore throat and bruised shins afterwards to prove it. Clint supposes that he’s next on the list – Landon was probably getting an earful now that he had nowhere to run with the ice on his knee.

Before he could spare another thought to Donovan – one probably considerably more spiteful than the last – Clint decided to forgo repeating his question and bark out an order. “Come on. We’re going out.”

“Wh-What?” Michael stammered, properly focusing his gaze on Clint for the first time in the last couple of minutes. His voice cracked, possibly out of anger or sadness or something Clint didn’t want to name, but at least it got him to focus on the present instead of whatever the hell Klinsmann thought would motivate Michael to have a better game over the weekend.

“We’re going to go hang out,” Clint repeated, carefully keeping his voice neutral.

Michael’s reluctance was obvious. Clint knew he was probably going to spend the rest of the day moping in his room or something to that respect, if he could have it his way, but Clint didn’t need another subpar game from his midfielder. Not that Michael’s tried and true methods of motivation were flawed, it was just that Clint had never seen Michael let his guard down to such a degree. He didn’t even seem to notice that they were still standing in the hotel lobby, immune to the sympathetic glances the rest of the guys threw their way before they headed to the elevators to decompress after training. Michael chewed as his lip, studying the tile on the floor with hunched shoulders, seemingly flinching away from Clint and his suggestion. “But why?” Michael asked petulantly, like if he knew if he protested long enough then Clint would leave him alone.

“Because you’re a mess,” Clint responded in a no nonsense tone, prompting Michael’s head to snap up and look at him with wide eyes.

A beat passed before color rose to Michael’s cheeks again, though this time it was accompanied by the furrowing of his brow as he prepared to angrily refute Clint’s statement.

“C’mon,” Clint continued, not allowing Michael to start an unnecessary fight, reaching over to tug at the hem of Michael’s ridiculous long-sleeved shirt. That caused Michael to close his mouth with an audible _click_ before he dropped his gaze to look at Clint’s hand like if the appendage had insulted him. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” They were friends. Just the type of friends that barely knew who each other played for apart from the national team, let alone the type that would hang out during their free time. Granted, Tim monopolized most of Clint’s, but it wasn’t something he was actively seeking to change.

“I guess,” Michael eventually agreed, sounding tired enough to match his slouching posture, a gesture that only served to support Clint’s attempt to get Michael to relax. Both Klinsmann and Donovan were pains to talk to, especially after a bad game. But add in today’s bad training session in which Jozy might have been injured – again – due to an accidental foul? They were insufferable.  They both needed to get out of the building as soon as possible to stay below the radar of the two most volatile men on the squad – the only reason why Jürgen and Landon hated each other was because they were so similar, honestly.

Clint decided not to press the issue and started making his way towards the hotel’s exit instead, forcing Michael to scramble to catch up to him. It was either that or hang back and let Bradley set the pace, but Clint didn’t have the patience to wait for him to shuffle out of the building. The whole point was to get his mind off the fiasco that was their game – and their recovery training today – not to let him wallow in it.

Of course, Clint’s brisk exit and Michael’s reluctance to snap out of his bad mood marred what was supposed to be a peaceful stroll around the city and shrouded it in tense silence, only broken by the occasional honk of a horn at the sound of their feet hitting the pavement. Clint could only handle so much of it.

“I rap, you know.”

“What?” Michael furrowed his brow in confusion, looking at Clint skeptically.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint continued matter-of-factually, looking over his shoulder to give Michael a nod before he slowed his pace down to fall into step beside him. “There’s a few videos on YouTube,” Clint shrugged, taking in Michael’s cynical gaze with a level one of his own. “Look ‘em up if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” Michael replied. His tone implied anything but.

“ _Tch_ ,” Clint scoffed, looking away in order not roll his eyes, visibly brightening when he saw a familiar green sign at the end of the block. “C’mon,” Clint repeated, tugging at the fabric around Michael’s elbow to pull him closer him. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“As if,” Michael muttered, rolling his eyes, glaring at Clint when he spotted his responding smirk.

It was one of the odd benefits of being back home, the fact that you weren’t immediately recognized whenever you stepped into a popular place. Granted, Clint didn’t draw too many eyes back in London, and he doubted that Michael did in Rome, it was still an unusual perk that had the likes of Thierry Henry commuting to work via subway.

Clint turned to Michael, leaning close to him in order to be heard over the whir of the various coffee machines. “So what do you want?” He asked in a stage whisper, hoping he didn’t break the other’s eardrum.

“Are you serious?” Michael let out a nervous laugh, shifting his weight to lean away from Clint. Michael bit his lip, “I don’t think we can have anything from here,” he explained, glancing over at Clint with an uneasy expression.

It was Clint’s turn to roll his eyes. “One _macchiato_ ,” he stretched out the last word in mocking emphasis, “isn’t going to kill you. Besides, what’s anyone gonna do? Ask to smell your breath?”

Michael glared at Clint before taking a step forward in line, too late to wiggle his way out since a large crowd stood between Clint and the door. “I don’t want anything.”

Clint didn’t have time to try and convince Michael to order a drink since the group in front of them decided to order simple coffees, or relatively simple because this _was_ Starbucks, and it was their turn before he expected it. “Don’t worry, Michael,” Clint mocked, squeezing beside him before Michael could try and get out of the line. “I think you have a great figure.” With that he proceeded to order himself a grande double dirty chai latte and an elaborate Frappuccino for Michael.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Michael piped up after a few minutes of waiting for their drinks. He bore holes into Clint all the while, but Clint just ignored him by staring at the menu.

“Well,” Clint spoke after passing Michael straws to pick up his comically pink drink, lips curling into a small smirk. “You’re not upset now, are you?” He continued in a laughing tone, taking in Michael’s horrified expression.

The drink had temporarily frozen Michael into place. “I’m not going to drink that,” he replied once he could find his voice, robotically leaning over to pick up a few napkins, throwing concerned looks at the Frappuccino every time he got one out.

“We’re sitting outside,” Clint replied, turning his back on Michael for the second time that day, pointedly ignoring his protests.

“Incredible,” Michael huffed as he sat down on the metal chair across from Clint, scowling at the drink in front of him. “You’re incredible. Could you have picked a smaller table?”

Clint only shrugged, reaching over to grab a straw instead of giving Michael a response.

“You didn’t have to buy this for me. I _told_ you not to buy me anythi-”

“Taste it,” Clint interrupted. He punctuated his statement by flicking his wadded up straw wrapper at Michael, grinning when it hit Michael square in his forehead. “I bought it for you so taste it.”

Michael tossed the wrapper back at Clint, though it flew over his shoulder since he was going for power instead of accuracy. He carefully tore his own straw open, instead of hitting it against the table like Clint did, and held the wrapper in his hand while he took a sip. The face Michael made was worth the five dollars Clint spent on the drink.

“That bad, huh?” Clint asked, unable to keep the grin off his face.

“I hate you,” Michael hissed before taking another sip. “You bought it for me,” he explained with a shrug after he looked up to see Clint’s confused stare.

“Masochist,” Was all the warning Clint offered before he reached over – which wasn’t that far given their small table – to take the drink and taste it. “That’s God awful, Mike,” he coughed with a grimace, getting a sharp kick in the shin for his efforts.

“Shut up, Clinton,” Michael grinned, making a show of taking a large sip of the Frappuccino once Clint handed it back. “Where are your manners?”

“You honestly don’t have to drink that,” Clint offered with a scowl after he took a swig of his, now lukewarm, latte. “Strawberry and mocha is seriously poison.”

“White chocolate mocha,” Michael corrected with shrug. “It’s growing on me, I think.”

Clint let out a noncommittal hum which prompted Michael to laugh and say “It’s true!” in his defense. He decided to let it rest, however, trying to hide his smile by taking another sip of his drink after noticing that Michael’s foul mood had all but vanished.

“Thank you, though,” Michael murmured after a few moments of comfortable silence, causing Clint to turn away from watching the cars drive by. Whatever Michael thought about in those few minutes of peace had brought that annoying crease back between his eyes and a few worry lines to boot. He was too young to have those, Clint thought.

“No need,” Clint rasped, scowling at the way Michael began to chew on his straw while he thought.

Just when Clint thought Michael wasn’t going to say anything else, he turned his attention to Clint’s hand on the table, using the index finger of his free hand to trace Clint’s fingers almost absentmindedly, pressing down on Clint’s fingernails when he got to them. “It’s just hard, you know?” Michael spoke almost as he was addressing Clint’s hand instead of the man that was attached to them, frowning at his fingers like they were the ones that yelled at him. “It’s really, really tough,” Michael smiled deprecatingly. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Clint drawled as if he was hypnotized by the other’s movements, using Michael’s brief distraction to flip his hand over.

“Well, yeah,” Michael frowned leaning back against his chair, placing his hand in a loose fist next to Clint’s, squeezing his nearly empty cup with the other. “Especially today.”

Clint hummed, reaching over to grab’s Michael’s hand the best he could with the awkward angle, choosing to watch his thumb rub circles over Michael’s knuckles instead of meeting Michael's gaze while he spoke. “You can talk to me, you know. I know what it’s like to have Klinsmann on my ass.”

Clint didn’t have to look up to know that Michael was smiling. “You do?”

“Shut the hell up,” Clint chuckled, glancing up to meet Michael’s pleased smirk. “Or I won’t ever buy you one of those things again.”

“Oh no,” Michael laughed. “Whatever shall I do?”

“Cry.”

“Probably,” Michael nodded with a content smile. “This was nice, though.” He added before turning to look at the scene around them, focusing on the Barnes and Noble across the street.

“The day’s not over yet,” Clint shrugged, squeezing Michael’s hand before he could talk himself out of it. “You should have told me you wanted to go there before, though. I think there’s a Starbucks in there, too.”

“There’s a Starbucks everywhere, Clint.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to have Tim have a cameo at the end and say "I didn't know bald was your type" while eating Cracker Jacks and watching the Discovery Channel, but I wanted to make this under 2000 words (which obviously didn't happen.) There was also gonna be a Strawberry toothpaste joke and implied kiss, but, you know. They were also going to have a longer conversation, but I lost that between when I started writing it (yesterday) and today.
> 
> Honestly, idk how I feel about Clint Dempsey, but this is the only pairing I could think about that didn't feature my go-to people? (I'm going through a slight-writing identity crisis without club football, as you can see - I keep on missing Orlando's games - but at least I'll always write the vaguest and crackiest pairings)
> 
> Also the Deuce does actually [rap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PhRq0UxF74) and it's [embarrassing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lq_x38awHg4)
> 
>  
> 
> Also don't be afraid to hit me up on tumblr! I always want to talk about writing, football and stuff. I've turned into a Pokemon blog without football - the Olympics cannot come fast enough.


End file.
